


Sycamore Wood Lane

by BatsAreFluffy



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Flowers, Gift Fic, M/M, Multi, poetry as inspiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 23:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18788758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatsAreFluffy/pseuds/BatsAreFluffy
Summary: Truly a joyous time for everyone, full of good food and excellent wine.I should know - I’ve been settled under the sycamore tree with the village men with a fine glass of red wine. It’s not every time we can sit back and relax with the people we’ve helped, and I cherish it.Gift for Sobre.





	Sycamore Wood Lane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sobre on discord](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sobre+on+discord).



> SuperWonderBat Spring Mini-Exchange  
> For Sobre, and their prompt -- Trinity and flower crowns.  
> I imagine the wonderful causeimanartist's work for these three.

**Sycamore Wood Lane**

... _ Tell her to weave it in a sycamore wood lane _

_ Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme _

_ And gather it all with a basket of flowers _

_ And then she'll be a true love of mine _

 

_ We saved the day once more, Clark, Bruce, and I. We fought, we strove for victory, we achieved it. The details do not matter.  _

_ They never do - certainly never in the long run. It is the moments that matter, that form the long line of memories that one cherishes after a long dark night’s rest.  _

 

Clark is laughing, a blush dancing over his cheeks and down his neck. If he were wearing flannel, he’d be rubbing his neck and scuffing a boot in the sand. He’s flustered in a way that Superman rarely is. And it’s all over an elderly lady, less than five feet of ancient wisdom held together with ribbon, that is making him this way. 

She speaks in old Spanish, with hints of Italian mixed in. The small mountain township that we rescued is awash in colours and sounds of mid-summer. Truly a joyous time for everyone, full of good food and excellent wine. 

I should know - I’ve been settled under the sycamore tree with the village men with a fine glass of red wine. It’s not every time we can sit back and relax with the people we’ve helped, and I cherish it. Too many times we forget that their lives must go on after we’ve departed. At least tonight we can become a part of someone else’s moment to cherish. 

Clark finally stumbles under the tree’s shade and lands next to me. His hair is festooned with cotton lavender, periwinkle, and fragrant sage, all woven together into a crown. He tugs at one strand of sage that dips into his eyes. The smile that brightens his face is beautiful. 

“It’s not every day we stumble into a Summer festival,” he admits to me, smiling. “It’s so - so full of life and energy.”

I nodd. “It’s refreshing, to see such happiness, after such destruction.”

He leans closer. “Reminds me of home. The harvest dances.” His smile deepens. “Of the abandoned haylofts.” Our lips meet in a tender kiss. 

Only a few wolf whistles show that anyone was paying us the slightest bit of attention. And frankly, it’s still strange that anyone in Man’s World would comment on the simple gesture of a kiss. They ignore most every other social cue and expression. We are both smiling as we pull away from each other. 

“I see they’ve decorated the fair lady,” he quipped, running his hand through a few loose curls. 

I laugh, delighted at such gallantry. “Yes, there were several young ladies who insisted on braiding my hair full of bright gazania and pomegranate flowers.” The strands of yellow honeysuckle tickle my neck as he brushes them away. 

He dips around my ear to mock smell the pink blooms. “They suit you,” he murmured, pulling away.

 

_ Moments flitter in my memories, like moths over the light of a fire. Each one has its own unique path, no two the same, despite the long list of similarities. It is the differences that make them special, that separate them from the rest. _

 

Clark and I pass through the fair, smiling and greeting people as they include us in their joy. More wine is pressed into our hands, and tidbits of delectable sweetmeats are slipped into napkins for us to try. I can see the pride in their eyes as we sample family traditions, and express heartfelt approval for everything.

But there is one missing from my side, whom I long to slip my arm into his. Bruce has been missing in the forest of flowers and festivities for too long. I know the plane has returned, fueled and waiting to carry him home to darkness. But he hasn’t called us, or appeared at the edge of my vision, dark and impatient. 

Children’s laughter catches Clarks attention, a faint wisp of _decorando la oscuridad_ reaching his ears. He pulls me along, and we slip past the stone pillars of an old building, now festooned with posters and flowers. An elderly gentleman passes us, laughing and shaking his head. He pats Clark on the arm before walking away.

Bruce is crouched on the cobbled path, surrounded by children, all laughing and chattering at him. His smirk is one of fondness, as he speaks softly in spanish to them. A few little boys are busy trying to see his armour, and one is fascinated by the gauntlets. His wide cape is spread wide on the ground behind him. One child is tracing the edges with chalk. They rub away any chalk that is left behind on the black surface before moving to the next eclipse on the ground. 

“There’s one under his cloak, Di,” Clark murmurs in my ear. “On the left - see the bulge?”

I smother a laugh - he’s right. The hem of a yellow dress peaks out of the shadows. The cloak moves where I guess her head would be. A minute later, the child, no more than 5, crawls out and drags her basket with her. She grabs another child’s hand and starts toward us.

“No flowers for Batman?” Clark teases gently. 

The yellow dressed lass looks stunned. “Batman does not wear flowers in his hair,” she announces, with the universal eye roll. The littler one laughs and they run off down the path beside us.

Bruce looks up and nods to me, the faintest smile on his face. Children never fear the Batman - they know, instinctively, that he’s there to banish the monsters from under the bed. They never think him the monster. He says something softly to the rest of the children, and they scatter, laughing, back into the festivities. 

“I’m disappointed,” Clark says with a smile. “No flowers for Batman?”

He ignores Clark and dips his head at me. “They suit you,” he says quietly. I smile to myself. My boys are so similar, and they never really know how much. Clark is pouting, but I can see the smile peaking out beneath the facade.

 

_ Some moments, some memories, string together as close as ivy to elder homes. One simply cannot picture one without the other, and the host of moments that are contained therein. It is this string of memories that make up the fine weave of an immortal’s life. I feel every moment as if it were a page in a book, faint vanilla slipping away. _

 

I laugh as I finally see the hints of silver. Dark green foliage twisted in the shadows of his cape. Midnight bluebells entwine with the many compartments of his belt. The sprigs of sage highlight the creases of his leg armour, tracing muscles and sinew. Batman may not wear flowers in his hair, but that certainly didn’t mean that Batman was not invited to join in the festivities. 

I reach out, and taken one gauntleted hand in mine. Even here, the children had taken to the challenge with gusto. One arm was woven with vines, intricate trinity knots and patterns all the way up to his elbow. 

I trail my fingers through the strands, hooking them under my fingers. With a tug, I pull him into a kiss, even as Clark laughs quietly behind us, wrapping warm arms around both of us. A few children giggle, and one ruffles both our cloaks as they run by. 


End file.
